


rêverie

by quinault



Series: prompts: tomione [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Romance, Seasons, i know nothing about philosophy pls dont come @ me, oneshots, please comment !!!, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinault/pseuds/quinault
Summary: I. Prompt: seasons--"Stay with me," he says."Where else would I go?"A small smile shatters the stillness of his face. Like storm clouds dissolving.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part of an upcoming oneshots series.

 

                                                           

 

###

Summer ends and the grass turns brittle and brown. She doesn’t even unpack her travel-worn suitcase with her flimsy summer clothes but tucks it away into her closet to be forgotten until next year. Her flat is the same as she’d left it if not a little dusty. The floorboards are no longer warm under her bare feet.

###

She attends the lectures one after another—Government, Global Politics, Economy...

 _“_ The article actually focuses on the classical liberal interpretation of hegemonic stability in which the ruling party—” She has her hand raised and the entire lecture hall is staring at her. The professor mutters some praise before turning back to the board. All eyes wander off her face, return to taking notes—

All except one.

###

She doesn’t know him but she finds herself watching him back. The way he leans over to whisper something in a burly blond boy’s ear, smirking. The way he slowly, absentmindedly runs one hand through his dark hair while he takes notes with the other, neatly, methodically.  

 She sees him in the library every day, always staying until exactly 3:20 AM. He sits in a quiet corner at the side, right next to the window with a dozen weakly bound books open in front of him. She always tilts her chair back to check if he is there, the warm yellow of her lamp illuminating the sensibly priced laptop on her mahogany desk. The Word file is forgotten—the cursor flashes on an empty page.

She finds out he’s the captain of the debate club when she walks into the classroom twenty minutes early for her Wildlife & Environment Protection fundraiser meeting (the topic of the week is tree kangaroos) and sees him behind a wooden podium, hands neatly folded behind him, one pristine sleeve of his white shirt nearly pressed against the dusty green chalkboard at his back.

 He smirks at his tongue-tied opponent, a lanky red faced youth in an oversized dress shirt. The room is packed and murmuring, one camera on a tricorder focused on the two, recording.

_“Does he have this shit fucking memorized?”_

_“He doesn’t even have_ _notes—does he fucking do research—_ ”

 _“Sam keeps using the same argument. He mentioned that last week too—_ ”

He leaves hastily after, avoiding a blond girl (one hand frozen in the air in an unseen greeting) but there is a small smile on his face as he passes by her at the door. Carefree and calm and—but _god,_ he smells like a mixture of summer and fall—which, how is that possible? —Fresh and light and woodsy that makes her lean in almost imperceptibly, her lips opening ever so slightly. She can _feel_ the cool ocean breeze soak past her soft chocolate brown sweater into her skin, into her _pores_ and it’s like a balm, like pure bliss—

She does not trust him.

Because everything about him screams _posh trust fund boy—_ everything from the impossibly poised way he walks to the three other Armani wearing, gold Rolex, perpetually tanned Instagram _douchebags_ that trail after him wherever he goes, carrying his books and avoiding eye contact. Like the rest of the student body. It’s as if he’s made of glass. As if he’s some fucking god to be worshipped. It’s absurd.

There are no gods.

###

It’s a downpour that soaks the entire bed of fallen leaves and makes the empty branches of the forest drip drip drip. There is a river on her side, crashing into the rocks on the shore as the rain-muddied water rushes forward in torrents. She walks hurriedly, eager to leave the trail for the dry warmth of her house. The seat by her fireplace where she can watch the rain trickle across the windowpanes. It’s still early, she should make breakfast and—

“Miss. Granger.”

She turns to see a figure with an umbrella at the side, facing the river.

She cranes her head slightly.

“I’m sorry, who...”

He turns around and it’s him. Tiny drops of rain cling to his dark hair, his alabaster skin. His eyes gleam with amusement.  

###

He hardly ever speaks of himself.

“You really don’t like Kant.” She shakes her head, amused.

He stifles a yawn. “Not every universal maxim is moral and not every moral is universal. The idea that acting out of his ridiculously contradictory and simplistic view of duty is somehow morally superior to acting out of self-interest is the most _ludicrous_ thing I’ve ever heard.”

He changes the subject whenever she brings up his family.

He orders another coffee. Black. He sips it as he watches her. It’s noon and the café is nearly full, laughter and chatter fill the air.  

She wonders what he gets out of this—his new habit of following her around. ‘ _Making friends’_ he repeats. He’s abandoned his little group to sit next to her every lecture and waits for her after Global Politics everyday, to the chagrin of Melania Macmillan. He smiles and jokes and listens to her as if every one of her words _drips_ in gold and—

She can’t understand why.

###

When he kisses her for the first time she stops breathing.

She’s speaking about her summer as an intern in parliament. She suspects some bitterness may have seeped into her voice as she admits it was mostly running around printing, organizing offices. She’s been wondering if she’s chosen the right path—whether she wants to dedicate her life to conferences and summits and _talking, empty promises_ when sometimes all she wants to do is to get her hands right in the earth—to _make a difference._ She needs to diversify her options. She encourages him to do the same. He scoffs.

“Tedious.”

“Well then what are _you_ planning on doing after graduation?”

He goes deadly silent, his dark eyes trained on her as if considering something.

“I have…My own plans.”

“Very specific.”

A look of annoyance flashes across his face before resuming a neutral expression.

“Would you really like to know?” He raises an eyebrow. “How about instead of complaining to me you do something about it?” His voice is nonchalant but there is an edge to his eyes.  

Electricity suffuses the air. She slowly drops the arm holding the tome to her side.

“You don’t have to play nice you know, darling. You could change the rules if you wished to. You…” he whispers as the metal rimmed library bookshelf digs into her back. “You could ruin them all.”

And when his lips close the distance between them—

It’s like worlds colliding. Like embers under her skin, burning, burning, burning. She kisses him back like she’s trying to memorize his lips. He kisses like he’s already done so.

###

Autumn ends and a thick blanket of snow descends on the rotten leaves. It feels like she’s in a dream, as if she only has a certain number of days before she wakes up.

He brings her a peony every Thursday and she slips it in the pocket of her tweed jacket, absentmindedly feeling the smoothness of the petals between her fingers. Alphard Black waves at her across the field before stooping down cursing to retaliate Malfoy’s attack with a snowball of his own. They watch from the bleachers, Tom’s head resting on her lap, one long leg crossed over the other.

“Stay with me.” He says and _god_ she doesn’t want to wake up— she doesn’t _want_ to be alone again. And— _yes, yes. She decides—_ she would claw and fight for another hour, minute in this dream. For this feeling of floating.

 “Where else would I go?”

A small smile shatters the stillness of his face. Like storm clouds dissolving.

###

She is not surprised at what she did or why she did it. She suspects, given the choice, she would do it again. The choice of staying by his side or being left behind. Forgotten. Thrust back into the cold shadow that is reality. Because what is it if not a shadow, a poor imitation of the echo of his laughter, the imprint of his hands.

No.

The dream is the only thing there is.

So she holds the knife in front of her, long silver handle with the serpent coiled around it. Scales shimmering in the fluorescent light of the skyscraper’s roof, the wind rippling her hair, the baggy hems of her slacks. She is not cold. Her hand does not shake.

The man thrashes and turns against his binds at her feet before the blood sputters and pools out of his heart.

Tom kisses her temple, one hand at the small of her back.

“Wonderful, darling.”

She inhales. She smiles.

It is the last day of winter.

 

 

 


End file.
